


Let Me Be Your Light

by KChan88



Series: She Was Bound to Love You [5]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Bisexual!Christine, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, First Kiss, Kissing, Lesbian!Raoul, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:48:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22958962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: What if Raoul de Chagny was a woman?A series featuring the major events (and a few things in-between) from the Phantom of the Opera, with a gender-bent, lesbian Raoul (and a bisexual Christine). ALW based, with Leroux elements.Scene 4: Il Muto/All I Ask of You. A first kiss. A confession of love. A shattered chandelier and threat in blood red ink.
Relationships: Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Series: She Was Bound to Love You [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1627735
Comments: 11
Kudos: 34





	Let Me Be Your Light

“Must you go to the opera tonight, Raoul?”

Raoul’s standing in front of her full-length mirror surveying her new black dress coat—tailored better for a woman in a skirt—and paying particular attention to the light gold waistcoat beneath. The same shade of gold lines the edges of her collar, which is a small departure from the usual all black evening dress men wear these days—waistcoats excepted, though gold is bit more bold than usual—but she isn’t a man, and doesn’t have to follow their rules, even if she borrows their clothing pieces.

She turns around toward her sister.

“I have to, Juliette. I’m required there tonight, with my patron duties, and Christine is expecting me. You could come with too. Philippe can’t go, he has that engagement with that school friend of his.”

Juliette quirks one eyebrow. “You know I’m also promised to a friend this evening, you’d just like to forget.”

Raoul smiles a little, sitting down next to her favorite elder sister. “I only miss you and my nieces and nephews since you left Paris. I want to see you more.”

Juliette smooths Raoul’s hair, rolling her eyes at the long French braid that escaped Marie. “Someone needs to mind the family home, Raoul. And Francois likes it, so do the children.”

Raoul huffs. “Make Eloise do it, I’d rather see her less.”

“Raoul…”

“She still wants me to marry a man, Juliette,” Raoul presses. “I’m sick of hearing it.”

Juliette doesn’t say anything at first, and Raoul hears every _it’s because that what’s expected, that’s what’s easier_ in the silence, but she _doesn’t_ expect what her sister says next.

“Raoul, Philippe told me about that note you got. The strangeness at the opera.”

There’s all the tone of a mother in her words, which Raoul is used to, by now. Philippe is forty one and Juliette thirty-five, Eloise a decade older than Raoul at thirty-one. At twenty-one and with both parents gone, Raoul is, sometimes, like another child in addition to being a sibling, to Philippe and Juliette, at least.

Raoul sighs mightily, collapsing back against her chair and hoping it doesn’t wrinkle her clothes. “I told him not to.”

“I know, and I also know that telling you not to fall in love with Christine Daae when you already are in love with her is foolish and I won’t bother.”

Raoul blushes, deep and long, wishing she wasn’t so obvious. Not that she could hide anything from her brother that night of Hannibal. She didn’t want to, didn’t think to, and doesn’t need to, really, although Philippe doesn’t seem to approve of Christine’s rank, at present, wishing for someone more of their class as Raoul’s companion. Strange, that Philippe is supportive of her singular interest in women, but does mind where they might come from, though Raoul suspects he might be easy to move, on that, and he did like Gustave Daae, when they met.

“But…” Juliette takes Raoul’s chin gently, and their eyes meet. “I will tell you to be careful with whatever trouble Christine’s found herself in. That note was more than a little concerning.”

“I’m worried about her,” Raoul admits. “I’ve seen her twice since Hannibal, and she just seems terrified all the time. Everyone at the opera does, but with her it’s more, and there was that man’s voice in her dressing room and she won’t tell me the story but I _know_ it must be the opera ghost or whatever nonsense he calls himself.”

“Sounds like someone is trying to turn the opera house into a ghost story,” Juliette muses. She tilts her head, studying Raoul. “You really love her, don’t you? Christine. I think you always have, a little. She was such a bright, sweet girl.”

Raoul blushes even more and she wants to sink into her chair and become invisible, but she won’t lie. There’s no point.

“Yes,” she whispers. “I do. It remains to be seen if she’s even inclined to think of me in such a way. I certainly don’t want to make things strange for her. I want to be in her life, in whatever way she’ll have me. I was so sad when we were separated, and to find her again seems a miracle.”

Juliette doesn’t argue, she just kisses Raoul on the head and sends her off to the opera.

Philippe catches her on the way out, giving her a once over and looking oddly melancholy.

Raoul picks up her not-at-all-a-swordcane from near the door. “Something the matter?”

“No, nothing. You just…you look like Maman, tonight. That’s all.”

Raoul’s surprised at the mention. Philippe talks about the mother who died when Raoul was born only sparingly, probably because their father did the same, wrapped up as he was in his grief, which might have been what aged him so rapidly. She’s been told she’s like her mother, but all she has are her sibling’s stories to go by.

Raoul kisses her brother’s cheek and grasps his hand tight before she heads toward the door. She _is_ taking one of the carriages tonight, with the horses she picked out herself.

“Be careful,” Philippe calls out after her. “Do you promise me?”

“I promise!”

The first thing Raoul has to do upon reaching the opera is, unfortunately, break that promise, because box 5 is the only seat in the house, and the very one the opera ghost said to leave empty.

Well, she won’t be bullied by a man pretending to be a ghost.

You wouldn’t know it from the oblivious chattering of the audience, but a pall hangs over the opera house, tonight. Every noise makes people in the orchestra pit jump. There’s a haunted air about the place, full as it is, and even the red plush seats seem a violent, bloody shade rather than a alluring one.

“Madmoiselle de Chagny!” Andre exclaims when he and Firmin spot her. “Are you certain you want to sit here? I’m sure we can find room in our box.”

“I don’t want to overcrowd, and this is the only remaining seat,” Raoul says, putting her feet up against the wall of the box in a way Philippe would chide her for. “Don’t worry, gentleman.”

She doesn’t say she wants to make it clear to the opera ghost—if he is harming Christine—that not everyone in this opera house is terrified of him. Besides that, it’s the managers who are doing the exact opposite of what the ghost said, so she doesn’t know how sitting in the forbidden box will make things worse, on that front.

“Well, no more notes!” Firmin says in a higher than normal voice. “Perhaps it will all go as expected.”

It does.

At least until a deep, threatening voice booms through the entire opera house, and Raoul’s truthfully so startled that she nearly falls out of her chair.

As it turns out, sitting in a ghost’s box _will_ make things worse.

“Did I not instruct that box 5 was to be kept empty?”

She whips around, searching for the source of the voice and seeing nothing, though it sounded like it was coming from everywhere, like some magician’s trick.

There’s a long, deep pause as the world inside the opera house comes to a screeching halt. Raoul swears she feels cold breath on her neck, maybe even the brush of a hand and a voice whispering _stay away from Christine_.

But then chatter breaks out across the theater and Andre and Firmin are in the box with her, looking afraid, looking to her with panic in their faces, and maybe she imagined the breath and the touch but maybe not.

“Settle, gentlemen,” she says, taking her feet down and putting up a hand before they can say anything. “Let’s not panic. Perhaps we ought to suspend...”

“No!” Firmin whispers. “If we send people out they won’t come back, they’ll know something’s wrong.”

“Something _is_ wrong, Monsieur Firmin,” Raoul says in a low voice. “Possibly something dangerous. I’ll cover the losses if people demand refunds for disrupted performance.”

“No no, it’s all right it’s all right,” Andre insists, more cordial. “Let’s see what happens.”

The audience looks unsettled, though some of them seem to think it’s just a part of the show, and a few of them look up toward Raoul in the box. Her attention’s diverted again by the sound of footsteps behind her, and perhaps even the swish of a cloak, but it’s gone as soon as it was there and…

Carlotta gives a high, awkward laugh on stage, and she’s saying something Raoul can’t make out to a white-faced Christine. Raoul hears a whisper somewhere near her a second time, a whisper that sounds like _perhaps it is you, madame, who are the toad_.

The opera starts again, and Raoul notices Meg, who looks as pale as Christine, sticking closer to her even if that doesn’t appear to be part of the show.

There’s a moment where Raoul thinks perhaps she imagined it all, and _that’s_ when Carlotta starts…croaking?

It’s really the only word there is to describe the sound.

She does it again. And again. And again.

Laughter breaks into the theater. It grows louder and louder and _louder_ , full of twisted joy. Shivers run up Raoul’s spine, and she gets out of her chair to go tell the managers to stop this, now, before someone gets hurt, but they're gone already, they’re on the stage ushering Carlotta off and dragging Christine forward. Christine, who looks ready to retch.

“The countess,” Firmin says, his voice cracking. “Will now be played by Miss Christine Daae.”

There’s some cheers from the crowd, but Christine looks terrified as Firmin all but pushes her toward the wings. Andre steps forward, saying they’ll be putting on the ballet from act three in the interim.

Raoul runs.

She needs to go backstage. She needs to tell them to send people home because she feels the danger in the air even if she doesn’t know what the danger _is_ , but this feels like more than some elaborate joke.

She can’t forget that _laughter_.

The ballet starts and the dancers are tripping as they finish putting their costumes on in a hurry, and stagehands drag on set pieces and everything is half-managed chaos. Raoul seizes Andre’s sleeve, demanding his attention.

“Andre, we have to stop this, until we understand what’s going on,” she says.

“No, no, we’re putting Madmoiselle Daae on,” Andre replies, though his smile is too stretched. “That will fix everything.”

“Or possibly put her in danger. I …"

A sound from above cuts Raoul off, a sound of...a strangled protest and the swish of a cloak, but before Raoul can even think something’s falling, a _body_ is falling, someone’s neck caught up in noose. There’s a terrible, sickening sound as the corpse drops and the rope grows taught and screams from the ballet girls echo through the air.

Vomit crawls like acid up Raoul’s throat, and she swallows it back, heart thumping like mad against her chest. She has to find Christine, now, and without delay. The managers are shouting, they’re saying it was simply an accident to the panicked audience, but it wasn’t an accident, not one bit. Raoul ushers some of the ballet girls off-stage and as soon as she turns around to look for Christine, Christine is there, reaching for her hand. She’s dressed in the ridiculous countess costume, a mint green cloak thrown around her shoulders.

“Are you all right, are you hurt?” Raoul asks.

Christine only tugs her away by the hand, through the halls, past confused and frightened actors.

“We have to go up,” Christine says, half to herself and half to Raoul. “Up, to the roof. Oh god,” she whispers, her voice shaking. “I can’t escape him can I? I’ll never escape him.”

“Christine, what?” Raoul asks as they bound up the stairs, Christine moving through the opera house like it’s her second skin, her home. Her home that’s now the site of a murder.

“He’ll kill you,” she mumbles, almost like she doesn’t want Raoul to hear.

Raoul’s stomach drops. 

“We have to go back, Christine. We...”

“The phantom will kill someone again,” Christine says, like she’s finally realizing something, as if some truth has struck her. She spins around toward Raoul on the stairs just in front of the door to the roof. “He will, Raoul. He’s everywhere.”

“Christine,” Raoul repeats. “There’s no phantom. Just a man. A man pretending to be a ghost.”

There’s a chill in the air when they emerge onto the rooftop of the opera house, but it’s as far as they can get from the depths of the place, and Christine seems to want that more than she wants anything. Christine’s words keep churning through Raoul’s mind.

_I’ll never escape him._

_He’ll kill you!_

Christine starts sobbing when she stops moving. She releases Raoul, sinking down onto her knees and putting her head in her hands. Raoul hesitates for only a moment before going over and squatting down next to Christine, and she still doesn’t understand. She only understands that there is a man in this opera house pretending to be a ghost, a ghost who just committed a murder in a crowded room, a ghost who is hurting Christine but she doesn’t know how and she doesn’t know when it started but she has to find out.

“Christine,” she pleads, firmer than she wants to be, but she has to know. “You have to tell me what’s going on. I’ll kill this man before I let him kill me or hurt you, all right?”

“Don’t say that Raoul!” Christine half shouts, looking over through tear-stained eyes. “You can’t, you saw what he did, you saw it.”

“Christine.” Raoul puts a careful hand on Christine’s back. “I’m in more danger if you don’t tell me.”

This, more than anything, seems to jolt Christine back to life, and Raoul stands up first, helping Christine from the ground.

“He was my teacher,” she says in a soft, heartbroken whisper. “For three years he taught me. I never saw him, not until a few weeks ago and he took me there, to his...his home and it was beautiful and terrifying and I...he looked so sad, but he frightened me. Not because of his face but because he was so angry when I took his mask off. I should never have taken it off. That’s where I was, when I went missing. I thought I would finally see my teacher but it was just...it went from a dream to a nightmare so quickly. I’ve never seen a face like that, so distorted, I know people must have been cruel to him over it, but that only scared me for a moment.”

“The opera ghost is your...tutor?” Raoul asks, putting the pieces together. “And the...the Angel of Music?”

Christine nods. “You think I’m foolish, don’t you?”

Raoul shakes her head, rage burning in the pit of her stomach. “No. Never.”

“He...” Christine sniffs, tears pouring down her face. “He told me that...I thought my father sent him. What kind of fool am I, believing in angels, but I just...I missed my father so much and he called himself the Angel of Music and I...sometimes I still can’t let his voice go. At first, when he was kinder, I thought it sounded something like my father’s violin. When he sang, I mean. I’ve never heard anything like that voice, before, except when my father played. It was beautiful.”

Never, not once, in her entire life, has Raoul wanted to murder someone, but she does now. She wants to take her swordcane and stab this man right through.

Dammit, she left her cane in the box, didn’t she?

How _dare_ this man pretend to be sent by Gustave Daae? Gustave Daae was the sweetest man alive, and he would never have endorsed anyone to treat Christine like this, whatever one’s beliefs in angels might be.

Raoul swallows back her rage, because it’s not what Christine needs, but it runs hot like lava down her skin, making it warm to the touch.

“It’s my fault,” Christine says in a small voice. “Everything that’s happening is my fault.”

“No.” Raoul puts her hands on Christine’s shoulders. “It’s his fault, this man this...”

“Erik,” Christine says. “His name is Erik. He told me. Maybe on accident.”

Erik. Such a simple, human name for a ghost.

“Everything he’s done is cruel,” Raoul replies, meeting Christine’s eyes. “But pretending to be some being sent from heaven by your father? That’s the cruelest thing I can think of. And it’s entirely his fault. Did he hurt you, when he took you down there?”

Christine shies away a little, her eyes darting down to the ground. “Not at first. He...he told me to stay away from you, that I didn’t need any more...friends,” she lands on the word awkwardly, like it’s not entirely what she means. “But I took his mask off the next morning and he grabbed my wrist and then pushed me down, and that’s where the bruise must have come from. I’m...I’m worried he’ll hurt you.”

Raoul lets go of Christine’s shoulders, putting her arms out in invitation for an embrace, should Christine want it. She can’t say _he won’t hurt me, I won’t let him_ , because that would imply Christine had.

Christine comes right to her, and they crash together, Christine’s chin hooked over Raoul’s shoulder.

“I’ll be all right,” Raoul says instead. “Thank you for having the courage to tell me all of this.”

“I still...I thought he wanted to teach me but he kept saying he needed my voice for his music and he wants...I think he wants something I don’t want to give. I wanted him to be my teacher and I feel sad for him but I don’t...”

“Shhh,” Raoul says, very softly. This man wants something from Christine other than her voice and it makes Raoul burn to the core, because she knows what that _thing_ is, dressed up though it may be with pretty words. At least he didn’t take it and Raoul’s glad of that, glad that this ghost seems to have _some_ honor, but this is stalking and murder and abuse and terror framed as some kind of seduction. “We’ll sort it out, I promise you.”

Raoul holds Christine close, tight, and long, wishing with every piece of her that she could chase the fear off. That she could go back and wipe away the gruesome sight both of them just saw. She does know one thing—this opera ghost is a murderer, and she will die before she lets him hurt Christine any further. They ease apart, Raoul’s hands still resting in the crooks of Christine’s elbows. The cold wind blows just as a few tears fall from Christine’s eyes, and before she really thinks about it, Raoul swipes a gentle finger across Christine’s cheek, coming away with a drop of frozen water on her skin that looks like a little diamond.

Raoul holds up her finger. “Have you been hiding some ice magic from me, Christine?”

Christine laughs. It’s half a sob, at first, but it grows naturally into something merrier, something magical. To Raoul, at least.

Christine shyly takes one of Raoul’s hands and intertwines their fingers.

Raoul’s heart skips a beat. Maybe two.

“I’ve missed you, Raoul,” Christine says, in a new sort of tone, the words heavy with...something. “So much.”

Raoul lifts Christine’s hand, pressing a light kiss to her knuckles, her thumb running across the palm.

Christine doesn’t pull back. In fact she steps a little closer and there’s a glimmer in her eyes that matches the stars.

_Oh._

Does Christine feel the same way she does? There was a moment, in Madame Giry’s room a few weeks ago, a spark, but it wasn’t fully lit before it was snuffed out. There was an _almost_ on the beach, when Raoul was barely fifteen, and she feels that _feeling_ now, that _something_ she heard in Christine’s words.

Raoul leans forward before she can even think it through, their lips not quite meeting before she pulls back, still keeping hold of Christine’s hand.

She meets Christine’s eyes, breathless, but she'll only do this with a _yes_. “I won’t kiss you unless you want me to. I...do you want me to?”

Christine pauses. Their eyes are locked, and Raoul couldn’t release that if she wanted to. Maybe she read it wrong, maybe she...

“Yes.” Christine’s words come out like she’s having a joyful revelation. Like she’s ready, even if she might be a little scared. “Yes, I do. Do you...want to kiss me?”

Raoul answers by doing just that. She slides one hand against Christine’s cheek, kissing her soft and sweet and gentle before they break apart, an aching smile spreading across her lips.

She could die right now, and be all right with it.

Christine’s smiling too, her eyes glittering like she’s seeing a new world and Raoul wants to kiss her again, now, but she needs to take this slow.

“Are you...” Raoul tries, willing her charm to come back but she’s nervous, suddenly. “Was that all right? I don’t want to push you.”

Christine shakes her head, looking a little shy. “You’re not. It was perfect.”

“Whatever this is between us, Christine, I promise I’ll be there to help you. I swear it.”

“I know,” Christine whispers. “I know you, Raoul.”

Raoul lets go of Christine’s hand, and confusion passes across Christine’s face before Raoul puts her own out, and bows.

Everyone is waiting, downstairs. But she doesn’t care.

“May I have this dance, Mademoiselle Daae?”

“Yes,” Christine whispers, taking Raoul’s hand. “You absolutely may.”

A light, dusty snow accompanies their waltz, falling from the sky in big flakes that land on the ground beneath their feet. The snow falls on their eyelashes and their hair, their shoes leaving a trail of half-circle smears like ghosts might have been dancing.

A smirk plays at the corner of Christine’s lips. “Who taught you to lead?”

Raoul winks. “Philippe. I overwhelmed him with my enthusiasm to learn. I may have gotten in trouble with my teacher, first.”

Raoul spins Christine around and catches her again, both of them laughing, and it sounds like music, it really does. She thinks she hears that swish again, the swish of a cloak making the music go dissonant, but no, they’re up here on the rooftop and Christine is smiling and moving closer, only a small gap left between them.

“I feel so safe with you,” Christine confesses. “I don’t feel safe often. I don’t remember what it feels like. And I...when you walk into a room it’s like there’s light and joy, and all I’ve had since Father died is...grief. Dark. And all _he_ did was...tell me to live in that dark. I don’t want to. I don’t want that.”

Raoul tugs Christine closer, their waltz turning into more of a sway. “You deserve light, Christine Daae. Summers. Joy. I swear I’ll do my best to give it to you, if you’ll have me.”

Christine searches Raoul’s face. “What do you get out it? I’m just a chorus girl, Raoul. With nothing and...”

She doesn’t say _we’re two women_ , because both of them know the risks and what they might face, but they don’t need to worry about it, right now.

Raoul pulls both of Christine’s hands toward her chest, holding them against her heart. “I get you. That’s more than enough for me.”

“Raoul...”

Raoul blinks back tears. “I will keep you safe, Christine. I swear to God I will. For as long as you want me here, I’ll stay. Anywhere you go, I’ll go.”

“I want...” Christine struggles, but she’s smiling, too, and holding Raoul’s hands tight. “I want picnics, in the summer time with you and open windows with the sun coming in and you, just... _you_ and... promise me, Raoul. Promise me you’ll stay.”

“I will. I swear it to you.”

The snow starts falling a little harder, but there’s a pocket of warmth between them, warmth and light, even in the darkness.

Christine speaks in a small, soft voice, like she’s dying for something to be true. “Do you...do you love me?”

“Yes,” Raoul says without hesitation, her voice shuddering with feeling. “I do.”

Christine smiles again, big and bright, and this is the girl Raoul remembers from childhood, the one she saw in the dressing room before fear took over.

She won’t let a ghost steal this soul away.

They consider each other, and Raoul puts her hands on Christine’s face before sliding them back into those beautiful brown curls that are soft to the touch. Then they’re kissing again, still a little shy but more ardent than the first time. Christine’s arms go around Raoul’s neck and she’s returning the kiss with all the enthusiasm Raoul dreamt of. They break apart, breathless, and Christine absolutely giggles. Raoul spins Christine around with a laugh of her own, steering them toward one of the angel statues on the rooftop so Christine can lean against it. She kisses Christine a little more thoroughly—her forehead, each cheek, her nose, before capturing her lips again.

Christine blushes when they finally come up for air, her lips a little red. “I haven’t kissed another woman before, but you are a very good kisser, Raoul de Chagny.”

Raoul blushes to the roots of her hair. “I am _very_ eager to kiss you senseless right now, if you like.”

Christine laughs, and it makes Raoul happy. Raoul goes in for another kiss, but it’s a swift one, because Christine breaks it off, taking Raoul’s hands and grinning.

“Order your horses,” she says, like they might be sharing a secret. Like they’re telling stories and playing with abandon like they did when they were younger. “Let me finish this up, and then we’ll go to dinner. Yes?”

Raoul feels like she might be holding glass in her hands. Not because she doesn’t love Christine and Christine doesn’t love her, but because of everything surrounding them. This opera house and the ghost of a man who haunts it. Who haunts Christine. She looks at Christine in the dark. Christine, with snow sparkling in her hair. Christine saying _do you want to kiss me_ and _do you love me_ with pain in her voice, like she couldn’t believe someone would want her for _her_ , and nothing else. Raoul wants to shove the opera ghost and demand to know how he could see a kind soul like Christine’s and then take nasty advantage of her grief. But he couldn’t have seen them, not up here. No one could have. Raoul knows she needs to be more vigilant, but right now her dream is standing in front of her, her oldest friend, and someone who might well be the love of her life. She can’t know for sure yet, she supposes, but it feels like that, and it’s so intoxicating that it washes all her worries away.

She can be the hero Christine needs.

Raoul kisses Christine’s hand. “If I were proper I would have insisted on dinner before I kissed you. I suppose it’s a good thing I’ve never cared about propriety.”

She slips an arm around Christine’s waist as they open the door and head toward the stairs. She’ll have to let go when they get down, but she’ll take these few seconds. There’s a whisper behind them, then, but she’s imagining it, surely she is. Christine’s arm goes around Raoul’s waist in tandem, and she stops them for just a moment before they reach the bottom of the stairs.

“I love you, Raoul.” She says it with firmness. Surety.

But also like she’s trying a little too hard not to look behind her.

“I love you too.” Raoul presses a kiss to the side of Christine’s head. “Let’s go, then we can get out of here.”

Despite protests, the performance goes on. Raoul doesn’t move from backstage, and at first she thinks all is over for the evening when they reach the curtain call.

At least, until she hears the laughter.

Oh, that terrible, awful laughter, that makes her hang on to what just happened on the rooftop with everything she has.

The chandelier start shaking.

Christine looks up.

The chandelier starts falling and people are screaming and Raoul rushes onto the stage, pushing Christine out of the way and barely clearing the area herself before there’s a magnificent and terrible shatter of glass. Her arms go around Christine and they fall to the floor, a tiny, sharp pain cutting into Raoul’s cheek. She puts her fingers to the little wound, and comes away with a small smear of blood.

Among the chaos and the shouts and the terror, a note falls slowly from the rafters, floating through the air without urgency. Raoul grabs it, but she doesn’t open it until she and Christine are out of the opera house and into the carriage. It’s unsealed, so she just unfolds it, Christine close to her on the carriage seat and taking one of Raoul’s hands in her own, their fingers laced tight together. Blood red ink crawls across the paper, barely legible from rage.

_Women shouldn’t be doing men’s work._

_Stay out of my box, girl._

**Author's Note:**

> I have a few Not in the Show interludes planned between here and Masquerade, including a scene directly after this one, so don't worry, its not too bad of a cliffhanger! :D


End file.
